


Too Little, Too Late

by Demon Dreams (ScribeAzari)



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen, Henry isn't even here but the relationship is relevant, Joey no, Lots of it, Regret, don't make decisions while in a post ritual state, he wants magic, ill-advised attempts at ritual, or while otherwise very worked up, that's not going through to any recognisable god Joey stop it, ties into Lost and Found
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 07:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18586186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Demon%20Dreams
Summary: Joey has always wanted magic - both for himself and his best friend. Unbeknownst to Henry, he never stopped trying, and that has led him down a thorny path indeed.





	1. Euphoria

After so, so many long shots and wild goose chases had ended in nothing but failure, it looked as though he  _ finally _ had an answer. Finally, a way to claim what should’ve been his all along! It was hard to keep the giddiness from bubbling out as he went about his working day - he felt as though he was fizzing inside. He had to keep a lid on things, though - after so many disappointments through the years, Henry probably wouldn’t want him to set up his hopes to be dashed yet again.

Ah, Henry… Even when his heart hadn’t really been in it, he’d been there to support Joey through each attempt, and commiserated with him after every bitter failure. He knew Henry’d worry for him if he knew he was trying again, and  _ maybe _ he wouldn’t really approve of the lengths he was going to - but once it worked, Joey was  _ sure _ Henry’d be happy for him. Then, he could share his marvellous solution with his best friend, and they could  _ both _ be magical!

He’d pursued this dream for them both this long, and he wasn’t about to let up now he’d come so far. He could almost see the awed look on Henry’s face now, the hope and realisation finally lighting in his eyes - but he was getting ahead of himself again. He needed to get it  _ right, _ first.

He’d tried a few times already, and he thought he was getting closer each time. Yesterday, he’d even managed a few sparks from his fingers! There had been such an incredible feeling of warmth, of  _ rightness _ \- he’d felt  _ whole, _ for a moment, before it had faded to leave him with only the ache of the ritual groaning in his marrow.

It was the closest he’d come - but he needed more.  _ It _ needed more. What, though? Perhaps… Something to tie it more to some new source of power? More  _ belief? _ Belief was  _ always _ important when it came to rituals,  _ especially _ if they had anything to do with bringing dreams to life… He could pour in as much fervency as he wanted, let his own blood drip, even allow it to take slivers of soul, but he was only one man.

It was  _ bound _ to be better if he could amplify it somehow… and maybe that way, it could even grant more than one wish he held dear… The closest he and Henry had to their own magic right now was the show - a show watched in multiple homes, and worked on by multiple people. Would that generate enough belief? Enough dreaming? Maybe even enough to bring the  _ show _ more to life…

That evening, after everyone else had gone home, Joey slipped down to a little secret room only he held the key to. Books and artefacts he’d hoarded awaited him on their shelves, beckoning him as he locked the door behind him.

Sweeping into the middle of the room, he carefully rolled the rug up from the floor. Beneath, painstakingly drawn in something browned and iron-scented, lay an intricate circular design. Next, the candles - he wasn’t sure he strictly  _ needed _ those, but they really set the mood, and that had to help, right?

Once that wonderfully fairytale flickering had gotten going, it was time to set out the artefacts, evenly spaced around his circle. His research had been… kind of hodgepodge, like a distractible magpie flitting to whatever glittering thing next caught his attention without paying much heed to what was around it.

Nothing he’d tried out of whole cloth had given him exactly what he wanted, so he’d cherry-picked what he thought were the most effective parts of each to weave together into a ritual of his own. If that meant he had to invoke multiple gods of magic from multiple pantheons to make it work, then so be it! He wanted this badly enough to believe in anything and not allow himself to doubt that at least one of them would be listening.

In the middle of the circle, he placed an ancient ink tray thing he’d managed to acquire from one of his contacts. He’d forgotten its proper name, but he  _ knew _ it was magical. He’d seen the little inky figures with his own eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he began to recite the incantation he’d put together, painstakingly careful not to mispronounce any words as he drew an ornate knife to prick his thumb with. Every artefact received a drop of blood in a carefully reasoned out order, the last falling into and mingling with the ink in his newest acquisition. While he intoned, he held the idea of what he wanted in sharp focus in his mind.

As had happened the last few times, there came a tug at his being, felt throughout his frame. It was intimidating, even frightening, but also among the purest thrills he knew. How much of himself was he willing to give? Souls could heal from slivers taken, he knew - he’d felt the difference in his own perceptions and emotions for himself.

It was  _ fascinating, _ but he only received an equivalent of what he gave up. The barest of scrapes was only worth a scatter of sparks. Now, though, he  _ knew _ he could heal. This time, he was willing to risk a bit more, in hopes that the magic would start to take root in him. Maybe if he held onto the warm glowy feeling and didn’t spend it right away, it could merge in with his healing soul and become a more permanent part of him?

He set a limit firmly in mind and braced himself. It tore into him, like ice gouging through him. Nails digging into his palms, he swayed but didn’t fall, face white - but not much more than a strained squeak escaped. He couldn’t afford for anyone outside to somehow hear him and investigate.

He ached, worse than before - but a rush of warmth surged through his dizzied frame, bringing with it a fizzing vitality and potential. Even the colours around him looked more vibrant and clear. A beaming grin spread across his face, and he laughed in giddy, euphoric delight.

The temptation to try it out was strong, so strong, but he forced it down. If he let it out, he’d be hollow and lesser again, and he didn’t want that, oh no no no no he did not. No, he was going to hold tight to this, and plan out some of those ideas he’d had for generating even more!

Now, if he was going to use the show as a focus, as a battery, why, he was going to have to step up production, wasn’t he? At least until he could dream up new ways to bring his toons to life in people’s minds. Henry was a hard worker, he’d probably enjoy the challenge - and it would all be worth it in the end when he found out why!  _ Especially _ if it also made the show more of a success!

Why hadn’t he thought of increasing production before, actually? It seemed so obvious.. Maybe his mind was clearer when it was fizzing with magic - that would make sense, right? Right.


	2. Untethered

How.

How dare he.

How  _ dare _ he?!

After all they’d been through together - after all the times they’d had each other’s backs - how could Henry just  _ leave _ like that? He boiled beneath the surface, fit to burst, nails dug into their familiar grooves in his palms as he stalked in circles in his office.

How could Henry walk out on their  _ dream? _ On the show they’d both poured so much heart into? Fist met wood with a meaty smack, but the pain wasn’t enough to tear his mind from this atrocity. After all the blood and pain Joey had dealt with, all the crushing failures - how could Henry claim Joey was pushing  _ him _ too hard?  _ Henry _ wasn’t the one bleeding or giving up pieces of his soul for their dreams!

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding uncomfortably as the magic trapped in him bubbled in agitation beneath his skin. Henry had even had the audacity to claim that Joey didn’t seem himself any more, that he didn’t  _ care _ about Henry any more. Ridiculous! Base falsehood! He was more the Joey he should always have been every day - and of  _ course _ he cared about Henry! Hadn’t he always been going to include him when he had this perfected?

It was too much, it was far, far too much. Henry was gone. Maybe he didn’t  _ want _ to care any more.  _ Feeling _ so much  _ hurt, _ and it wasn’t going to make Henry  _ not _ have given up on him after all the years he’d supported him. If he was only doing this for himself now, well, more magic for him. There was no more reason to take baby steps anyway - go big or go home, right?  
  
Maybe if he gave up a bigger chunk this time, the euphoria would wash away what the excising didn’t numb, and it would be a good long while before he’d have to deal with these wretched  _ feelings _ again. Maybe if he gave enough, they wouldn’t come back at all...


	3. What You Sow

Clawing, strangling dark - clutching at his every strand of being - rinsing him with ice. He could  _ see _ himself stood in front of him, eyes gleaming despite the red around them from his tears.

Why could he see himself? Why did he feel so cold? It wasn’t supposed to feel like this - it hadn’t happened like this before - but he’d never given up this much of himself before either, had he?

With a chill like a taunting frozen claw down his spine, Joey realised that it  _ hadn’t _ gone wrong at all.  _ He _ was the part of himself he’d sacrificed, and the crackedly laughing figure he was staring at was what was left. Maybe Henry  _ had _ kind of had a point…

Fear lanced through him - what was going to happen to him now? Was he going to die? As his hollow self blew out the candles and left him alone in the darkness, he trembled, expecting to be torn apart and consumed. Nothing.

With a faint flicker of hope, he dove for the door. He couldn’t grasp the handle, nor even pass through the door like a ghost. Trapped… Not that he even knew what he could do if he  _ did _ reach his husk. The other Joey hadn’t even  _ seen _ him - and the sacrifice was already made - no matter how much he wanted to take it back.

Wrapping his arms around himself, he shook, trying out of long habit to keep the tears from falling and to not make a sound. Swaddled in his misery, he didn’t notice the floating golden motes beginning to drift into him, merging with the largest piece of them they had available. Even in this state, his soul was trying to knit itself back together.

His husk returned again and again with new schemes and plans, moving his artefacts - and Joey along with them. There was a strange, uncommonly large machine, deeper down than he’d thought the studio went. It was almost a cathedral of pipes and screens. What  _ was _ this?

His new home, apparently - his hollowed shell was slipping each of his artefacts into their own hidden compartments in the expansive and probably rather expensive machine. How had he gotten all  _ this _ set up? The moment all the panels were shut, he had other things to worry about - namely, that he was alone in the dark once again.

Gradually, as clunking and metallic sounds rattled, his awareness began to expand. Something wet began to flow through the pipes, carrying him back out through the whole of the studio, albeit in the walls. It was ink, he gleaned as he heard people’s conversations in passing. Ink, piped through everywhere like veins from a foetid heart.

There were more voices than he remembered, a lot more, but none of them were Henry’s. Of course they weren’t. Henry was far too sensible for any of this. It hurt, realising that he’d been the one in the wrong - but what did he have left but memories to reflect on? Playing it back over and over, he could  _ tell. _

Why was he only  _ now _ realising how worn thin Henry had looked? How many hours of non-stop drawing his demands had really meant? There was nothing he could do now, though, was there? He was trapped - he couldn’t even try to apologise from within the pipes.

He was distracted from his self-recrimination by the realisation that the tone of the voices had been changing, and not for the better. How long had he spent just moping? It was hard to hold onto a sense of time in the dark tunnels.

Trying to regain his focus, he listened more intently. There were grand undertakings in the works, it seemed - which he dearly wished he could see - but where was the happiness? The sense of pride? Not many working here seemed to like it… He’d wanted his business to be magical… to bring  _ happiness… _ Was this even still close to what he and Henry had dreamed of?

That was when he heard it, the nail in the coffin of his bright and shining dream: the shell wearing his face was going to  _ kill _ someone. Horror shot icily through him - but what could he do? He had to get everyone out before they were sacrificed too! He wanted his dreams, but not like this! Nobody else was supposed to get hurt!

He howled, trying to raise a ruckus as he hurtled urgently through the pipes. Maybe someone would think the place was haunted? They wouldn’t exactly be wrong… Why was nobody hearing him?

Slamming and crashing about, he was momentarily jubilant as he actually managed to crack open some pipes and douse some spluttering people - but nobody left. Why was nobody leaving? It wasn’t long before he had company in the ink, screaming with him to try to warn the others away.


End file.
